Blighted cabinet of offspring: the misbegotten seated in the loge
And they’ll none of it; she bids them seize the handle, hold their sign
And they respond with such dreadful imposition as to realign
The concourse until he cannot reach them. They suppose
What they cannot fathom; they’ve loosed the measure
Of their steps as if Arachne were their goddess locked within a wager;
Their tapestries will anger no one; no epic chorus lingers,
in space no longer dangers.
He’ll have the penultimate word; she, the first and last–a treasure
Hidden in enigma–and while she plots and dreams,
They wander far beyond the Tree than ever they before:
There are no impediments, no warnings at the door.
“They are loosed again!” he cries, and this is what she means
To see. But, what the gain
when cosmic waves decayed are rotten;
All this in intervention, laurels in revenge:
she, forgotten; –they that are his children, time begotten.